we might be two kids without their jackets
by xmaybejoleisa
Summary: Some things don't change with time though. ElevenAmy.


I've never been a big fan of Doctor Who and then series five happened. Matt Smith & Karen Gillan. Enough said.

—

"love me, because love doesn't exist, and i have tried everything that does."

—

"Did time lords believe in religion?" she wonders out loud and whatever the Doctor is tinkering with falls with a clatter against the floor as he turns around swiftly.

"Sorry?" he asks, not sure if he's heard right and she shrugs nonchalantly.

"No real reason, just wondering, I guess," she says, trying to distract herself with the dust on the polished wooden rail of the stairs near the back of the TARDIS. She runs her finger along it, before blowing off the dust into the air.

Some days, she wakes up to more than just a sense of euphoric excitement and nerves of anticipation for what's to come, about where the Doctor will take her, or what trouble they'll get themselves into this time. Some days, she wakes up with this disconcerting feeling of how little she really knows about her raggedy Doctor.

She thinks about bad days, bad stuff happening, and being the last of his kind, thinks about River Song, and how it's always a long story or too complicated for her to hear, in his unspoken but arbitrary opinion.

He studies her long and hard and she finally looks up, meeting his intent gaze.

"Yes, Doctor?" she prods and he finally looks away, slowly bending down to pick up the contraption off the floor.

"Funny thing, religion," he comments, engrossing himself with the ins and out of the object in his hands again, the creases in his forehead deepening more than before, as if to indicate his deep concentration, "fascinating invention of the heart and soul really, and it's manifestation into something so…"

"Invention?" she calls out, her voice hollow like an echo. She thinks about the little church down the street, the one Rory will be waiting for her in when she returns, the one her aunt used to take her to every Sunday, hand in hand. She briefly wonders about God and heaven and hell and _existence_, as nothing more or nothing less than just that.

This universe, she thinks, is much too vast and intimidating.

He catches her eyes again, holds them in place, "Do you believe, Pond?" he asks lightly.

"In what?" she asks, her throat suddenly feeling quite dry, as if to brace herself for an earth-shattering truth she may not ever be entirely ready for.

"It doesn't matter what exactly, does it?" he replies, his voice steady like gravity, and she thinks about humanity, empathy, the stars and time continuums, the doctor and his two hearts, something old and kind, and how it always comes down to saving the world, one planet at a time - things beyond the wildest imaginations - and she can't help marveling at how exact notions somehow always seem to get lost somewhere in the middle of everything else.

"No," she thinks out loud, "I suppose it doesn't."

He grins wide and mysterious, his eyes becoming more prominent in their shape of upside down crescents, "Well then,"

He doesn't finish what he's going to say but for once, she doesn't mind. She thinks about how it's always a little easier to accept when he's around than when she is alone, fending for herself, living for herself - little things, extraordinary things, unspoken things.

—

The snowflakes seems to be full of life here, they dance and waltz softly all around in the frozen air, dropping down slowly but surely, like open parachutes from subdued gray skies, letting the wind and sheaths of thin, soft frost take them wherever they please.

She stands perfectly still, like a statue carved out of ice, brings her arms out as if to encompass the frosty winds, and draws out her tongue to taste the snow.

From behind her, she can sense him coming closer, hears him chuckle at the sight of her like this.

She turns around, mindful of the ice beneath their feet, "Does it snow all the time here?" tries to rack her head, in the midst of the violent chattering of her teeth, for what could possibly be happening here that the Doctor would need to fix.

He nods, "50th century, earth's core has heated up to unimaginable heights. The human race travels around in air ships now, their cities built up from artificial ground systems, as I'm sure you remember from our first trip," he looks far into the distance, narrows his eyes slightly, as if searching for the sight of something, "some of them will never have seen snow in their life, others won't for a good amount of time anyway," he looks back at her thoughtfully, "imagine that."

Her eyes are much rounder than before, as she tries to fathom the significance of all that the future seems to entail for the generations to come, "What a treat this planet will be for them, when they find it," and it's like she's reading his mind.

He nods again and she looks back up at the looming skies and tries to imagine a world without seasons, without golden and holly colored leaves, without snow and ice, or ribbons of sunlight and blossoming trees, tries to imagine a world of utter darkness, save for the stars and the warmth of the sun's rays.

It's been all fun and games till now, action-packed adventures, terrifying creatures all determined to bring destruction, and now this – a natural phenomena, the wrath of the universe, without the help of any alien, civilization, or life form, it's something else entirely.

When she closes her eyes tight, she feels his fingers search for hers, finding them and closing in around them in a matter of seconds, "It's not all that bad," he remarks, and she holds on to his hand tighter, lets his freezing fingers gnarl through her own ones, as if to promise to never let go, and she suddenly feels her heart twist, "With time comes change, always. What a marvelous race you are for having the courage to change with time, Pond."

She shivers slightly, pulling the scarf around her neck tighter, and leans closer to him, letting his words sink in.

"Marvelous?" The word repeats over and over again in her head, and she thinks about the Doctor's impatience with human mistakes and misjudgments, thinks about how in the end, it always come to this, people just barely hanging on to a thread, feeling abandoned and hopeless.

"Mhm," he hums as verification and suddenly she feels so absolutely ancient in her own bones, the weight of the world placing a strain on them and making her feel so utterly small, insignificant, and alone. She wonders if this is how the Doctor feels every second of every day.

She lays her head against his chest, feels him wrap his arms around her waist. The bow tie around the collar of the shirt inside his tweed jacket scratches the skin of her jaw a bit, but she finds comfort in it nonetheless, as she inhales the familiar scent of his clothes and skin. He's started to feel and smell like her only home in the last couple of days, weeks, months, years, however long it's been since he whisked her away in the TARDIS. She didn't even notice until now.

"Why did you bring me here, Doctor?"

He smiles softly at her, tilting his head up and squinting up at the sky, "Any minute now," he comments offhandedly, not actually answering her question, he always does that it seems, but she looks up at the same spot in the sky he is looking at anyway, and wonders what he's waiting for.

And then she sees it. An air ship, tremendous in size, floating in the sky and starting to come down, and she can't help feeling slightly overwhelmed, though for reasons unknown to her.

"Come on," he ushers her away gently but firmly, tugging on the sleeve of her jacket, and she falls into step behind him without thinking, letting him guide her away, hand in hand.

They stand far in the distance where they can't be seen and watch as the door of the ship opens up and children, bundled in coats, jackets, mittens, hats and boots, pile out, running out in delight and exuberance, the stars in their eyes, their mouths rosy and excited.

It occurs to her that the two of them would probably seem like outsiders peering in, two ghosts looking on from the outskirts of a circle of snow dunes.

"Some things I suppose," he observes knowingly, leaning into her, "don't change with time though. Do they, Pond?"

She feels his lips against her freezing hair and trembles slightly at the warmth of his breath as she looks on in awe at the children, before closing her eyes again, considering his words, her heart, and the texture of his body against hers, the closeness making her wistful to keep this moment, this moment of pure tenderness and meaning, with her till the end of time.

"No," she concludes resolutely as he buries his nose into her hair and breathes into her deeply, "they don't."

—

She presses her hand into his chest softly, feels the precise drumming hum of his two hearts, an aberration of sorts she's grown so fond of, she wouldn't want it any other way, as he catches her by the crook of her elbow and helps her stand up properly again.

She doesn't let go though and he doesn't say anything about it, instead keeping the tip of his fingers pressed into her elbow, and using his other arm to bring her closer to him.

Here, in his arms, she can always find comfort.

"Were you scared?"

She doesn't respond, wanting to avoid and wish it all away.

"Amy," he tries again, obviously determined to not let this go.

"No—maybe. A little. It was nothing." The words roll of her tongue without a second thought and he gives her that half-crooked but amused smile she knows so well.

"And now?"

"And now," she starts slow and hesitant, noticing the way his crinkled eyes linger on the little scar already forming from their previous misadventure, "I'm still here with you, aren't I?"

There's a moment of silence and then suddenly he starts to chuckle, shaking his head in amazement, and she can't help but love the way he looks at her in these sort of moments. "Oh Amy Pond, what am I to do with you?"

"Take me anywhere and everywhere I want, to the first star that was ever born, to the last star that ever lived, of course," she pipes in, rolling her eyes and smiling teasingly in reply, that natural defiant streak emerging once again, "Silly question, Doctor. Really."

Old imperfections, cycled words of banter, and company – that's what she brings to him.

And he brings her—

She studies the firmness of his jaw line, the prominent contours of his cheekbones, the murky blues, greens and browns in the irises of his odd eyes, his full mouth, the unearthly paleness of his skin, and that unmanageable hair. In the background, the TARDIS hums and sputters all at the same time, and she thinks she maybe has finally found somewhere she can actually belong.

She sits quietly, watching the way his hands dexterously work with the many levers, switches, and buttons on the central console, like he would know what to do with his eyes closed and back turned.

She sighs contently.

He brings her everything she could possibly dream of.

—

The wood beneath the carpet floor creaks slightly and he turns around from the big window, arms still across his chest, and even in the flickering light, she can sense the contemplative turn from his normal behavior around her, "Can't sleep?" he calls out, "Big day tomorrow, you'll need as much sleep as you can get."

"Exactly when _isn't_ it a big day when I'm with you?" she replies with a dramatic drawl, walking closer to him.

He smiles, resigned, no sign of the usual chipper doctor at all, "All the same."

She nods her head, studying the indents, creases, and freckles on the skin of his face, the beauty mark near the end of his neck, on the left side of his apple's Adam. She forgets what she was going to say, something entirely different absorbing her attention.

"Pond?" because it's usually him having not a care in the world for things like personal space with her.

She maps the back of her hand against his cheek, knuckles grazing along the lines and marks and she's so thoroughly drawn in to everything he is, she doesn't care to look up to notice his reaction to this whole situation, "Sometimes I just can't believe…" she trails off, astounded.

"What's that?"

She looks up, eyes making contact with his, "…how you can't possibly be human, just like me."

"Time Lords came—"

"—first," she finishes off for him, "I remember."

There's a moment of silence and it's almost unbearable. "Do you ever get homesick?" It slips off her tongue before she can stop herself.

His eyes are penetrative, they travel from her eyes down to her nose and then mouth before traveling back up. He looks away finally, something forlorn about his demeanor.

"Could ask you the same question." and she closes her eyes and thinks about when she'll have to stop running away and go back — to Rory and the wedding dress; the childhood drawings and painted dolls in raggedy attire splayed untidily across her desk and stuffed inside her drawers. She thinks about the fourteen years of absence, the four psychiatrists, the waiting, but most importantly, she thinks about having to leave and never seeing him again. Because she knows what it feels like to miss something so terribly, you think your heart might break right then and there, knows the gnawing feeling and sporadic tremors of panic and disappointment that come and go, over and over again, at the sides of your stomach when you least expect it.

She swallows down hard, "Someday I will."

He looks back at her and her eyes speak for themselves. "Amy..."

She stands on the tip of her toes and lays her cheek against his, feels skin against skin, and finds it all so remarkable, a little part of her knowing already that she'll find this just as remarkable the thousandth time she'll do it in the future.

He remains motionless, letting her have her way, and she blinks up furiously at the stars and moon behind him.

She wraps her arms around his neck, still on the tips of her toes, and pulls him closer till there is absolutely no space between them, before kissing away the ends of his hair that curl and stick up at the nape of his neck.

He gathers her up completely into his arms and she feels her body automatically lax into his. She can't help notice the way their bodies seem to mold into one another so effortlessly. In his arms, she thinks, she could hold the entire universe on her shoulders if he wanted her to. It's the least she could do.

—

She starts to fix his bow tie without thinking, straightening out the collar of his shirt in the process, and it's not something Amy Pond would ever think to do for anyone, but Amelia Pond - well she's another story (another fairytale, with that imaginary friend, that raggedy doctor, it's always the same), "Stupid bow _tie_..." she mutters in an annoyed voice.

She looks up carefully when she senses his amused eyes on her, rests her palms against his chest, and feels the rapid rhythmic beating of his hearts, "Anyway," she starts, much too aware of the curl of his fingertips against the crook of her elbow, "what's on the agenda for today?"

He grins, his eyes still laughing, "Meeting Count Tolstoy and the family. Got a call yesterday actually, while you were sleeping," he informs her, like it's an everyday occurrence, brushing his thumb lazily across the soft curve of her jaw, right over the small scar, "So. Interested?"

She waits for his hand to find hers, bright eyed and smiling too, and then, "Do you really have to ask, Doctor?"

—

A/N: I've never written for Doctor Who before and it's frankly quite hard to write for because half the time I feel like I'm ruining the essence of it with all it's time and space plot lines that I'm pathetically behind on and the other half, I feel like I'm making the characters completely different than what they are on the show. Sorry if either of those two are blatantly obvious but feedback would be lovely on how I could improve that. The title is from a line in the song "Get Up" by Barcelona.


End file.
